What Happens in Baltimore
by Invisible Ranger
Summary: Season 5/Dark Murdock special! Murdock is out on a series of nocturnal solo adventures in Baltimore when Stockwell interrupts him with a most unusual business proposition. Apologies to Dexter Morgan and Edgar Allen Poe.
1. Chapter 1

**What Happens In Baltimore**

**by Invisible Ranger (HBF), 2012**

**Disclaimer: TAT and related characters belong to SJC/Universal. This is strictly for the jazz.**

**Dedicated: To AJ. I promised you this one.**

The moon wanders, overhead, its light reflected in the waters of Inner Harbor. The stars wander along with it, little pinpricks of light visible even through a few wispy clouds.

My mind wanders too. It would be a good night for flying, even if it's cold enough to freeze the nuts right off a brass monkey. I wish I'd brought a scarf and gloves before I walked out the door of my apartment. That's one thing I haven't gotten used to up here, this damn winter weather. Turned cold the last of September and I've been shivering ever since.

I wish I were three time zones away. Forget San Francisco; I left my heart in L.A.

Some church bell, far away, tolls half past one. I always enjoyed the middle of the night. Less people to worry about and more silence to fill up with the never-ending voices of my subconscious. There's nobody around and I'm free to do as I like, talk to myself if I feel like it, skip down the sidewalk. The first time I slipped out to go exploring, I felt like I was twelve again. I mostly did it because I was bored and I couldn't sleep. Now, I actually look forward to these "adventures" almost as much as seeing my guys.

It's uncanny how quiet even a big city gets this time of night. Very few cars, no screaming sirens, no squawking gulls fighting over chum. Like I've been cast in some weird remake of that old movie with Vincent Price about the last guy in the world.

Only I'm not alone.

It's not a vampire or anything like that. I stopped believing in that stuff when I stopped believing in Santa Claus and the Chicago Cubs ever winning another Series. But I know somebody is there, watching, stalking me just out of sight. I spent too many years in the dense jungle highlands of Nam to ever lose that sixth sense. Whether or not they mean me any harm remains to be seen. I try not to think about it.

Tonight is actually the first time I've ever been to Baltimore. It's also the farthest I've ever dared venture out on one of my nocturnal adventures. I'd done some of the swamps down along the Potomac, the National Mall, Arlington National. Either insomnia or sheer curiosity brought me here, hitching rides as to discourage the Ables who like to follow me everywhere. In any case I think I've lost them. I've spent the last few hours wandering around the chilly, damp downtown area. Thinking, mostly.

If I have plenty of time to do anything nowadays, it's thinking. I'm probably supposed to be working at…where the hell do I work, again? It occurs to me I can't remember.

That's the troubling thing. There's a lot I can't remember. They said that was cured of that, of the memory lapses, when they sent me on my way from the hospital. I have my doubts. There are holes in my memory big enough to drive a Sherman tank through. I don't like that any more than I like having to work civvy jobs.

There's that shadow again. It's there, for just the barest instant, out of the corner of my eye, then it's gone again. I'm starting to worry.

The street sign tells me this is Calvert Street. That means next to nothing other than my pilot's internal compass telling me I'm walking north instead of south to the harbor. Buildings loom to either side of me like so many stained teeth. Any one of them could be the hiding place of the set of eyes I'm sure is watching me.

_Just because I'm sane doesn't mean I can't have a level of healthy paranoia. _

I'm not sure how far I've been walking on Calvert when the internal alarm bells start to go off. Something is definitely not right here, and I'm not thinking it's the dead rat in the gutter. This isn't the best part of town; there's all kinds of stuff from cigarette butts to used rubbers strewn around, but my sixth sense is practically screaming.

It's a good thing I see in the dark as well as I do, otherwise I'd have stepped right onto him. Or what's left of him.

Weirdly, considering his throat has been viciously slashed, his handsome face has a look of peace about it. Only a few drops of blood on his expensive dark suit. Tie still neatly knotted. It takes another second for me to remember I've met him before.

_Whatever kind of jerk you were in life, Able 16, you didn't deserve to die like this._

Just to be sure, I kneel down beside him, probing for a pulse. I get nothing. His skin has the texture and feel of a marble slab. I'm no medic but I guess, conservatively, that 16's been dead for a couple hours.

"I was hoping I'd run into you here."

The voice comes so suddenly, from so close by, that I jump like a scared cat. My heart thunders and I reach for a sidearm that isn't there. When the speaker emerges from the shadows, I wish I were armed.

"Surprised, Captain?"

"Not really. You seem to be one of those _creatures of the night_," I tell him, bitterly, doing a passable Bela Lugosi at the same time.

Hunt Stockwell looks like he always does: cool, well-dressed, supremely smug. He's even wearing those damn glasses of his in the veiled moonlight. He isn't smiling, but instead wears an expression that's hard for me to read. Is it pity? Sadness? Does the man even have the capacity for empathy? After several months of knowing him, I am inclined to think not.

"Sixteen was a good agent," he says as he stoops and gently closes his dead operative's eyes. "Three months out from retirement. Whatever will I tell his wife and son?"

I snort. "Whatever you like. You're pretty good at making up stories, aren't you?"

Now he takes off the glasses. I must have pissed him off, which makes me feel almost triumphant. His expression stays inscrutable.

"Captain, what I'm about to tell you is confidential. And I hear _you_," he pauses for a moment, "are uniquely qualified to keep confidences."

I'm not sure what his game is. One of his precious Ables is dead and here he shows up wanting to play Truth or Dare with me in the middle of the night. Something isn't right. But I decide to play along anyway. If you want information from this guy, you have to do it his way, at least for a while.

Stockwell, for the first time since I've met him, looks tired and old. Mortal, even. "This is not the first Able we've lost. Or even the second. I'm afraid it's becoming a pattern and, as you know, I dislike losing valuable assets," he says.

A million thoughts explode in my mind like fireworks. I'm tired and thirsty and about a hundred miles from home. But this revelation, and its implications, jolt me wide awake like a shot of caffeine.

_So they _can_ die. They're not superhuman after all._

I shrug, trying to stay casual. "What do you want me for, General? You're a man with a lot of connections. You don't want the police involved, get some of your boys out at Langley to figure it out. I'm just a former crazy guy. I'm not Kojak or Sherlock Holmes." It ends up sounding harsher than I'd intended, but I really don't care. There's a dead man on the ground and another one in front of me who might already dead if it weren't for my hesitation a few months ago.

_I should have shot the bastard when I had the chance._

He just smiles. Insults and sarcasm never do much for him, even Hannibal's. "I thought you'd say that. However, I do know you're Agency trained," he holds up his hands to stop me when I open my mouth to protest, "and I know you have the sort of mind I need to get to the bottom of all this. If you agree, I'll make it worth your while."

"Oh? Like you made it worth the guys' while to be your trained monkeys and work for you?" I can't help it now. I am being purely sarcastic but, again, it's Stockwell and I really don't care.

"That is a different matter, and one which does not concern you…"

"Like hell it doesn't. They're my guys and I stand by them no matter what. Or did your precious dossiers not tell you that?"

"If you'd let me finish, Captain Murdock, I'll explain. I've not told your beloved A-Team about this matter because it is a matter of security. You of all people know how Colonel Smith and the others thrive on good intelligence. However, I have a proposition for you."

Which, I know, could mean anything. "I'm listening," I say, but my Spidey-senses, not to mention my bullshit antenna, are at full alert.

"You, meaning only you, are given free rein in the matter of my three dead Ables. I don't intend to lose any more. Bring me the party or parties responsible and you get one request of me. Think of it as .a genie with a caveat in place."

Before I can stop myself, it's out of my mouth. "I want a full pardon for my Team. No questions asked."

"Ah. That's the one caveat in place," Stockwell says, sighing. "They are not to be involved in any way in this investigation. And my agreement with them is a separate one."

I'm starting to get angry now. I knew this all had to be too good to be true. "You're telling me you can't pull some strings and get it done, Stockwell? C'mon, I thought you could do whatever you wanted, and you didn't exist, and all that spook stuff. Or were you just bragging?" My voice is getting so loud, I'm surprised nobody's woken up in the high-rise behind us.

We share a long, hard stare. What they call a Mexican standoff in the movies. He looks away first, but just for an instant. "Let's not put the proverbial cart before the horse, Captain. First I need your word that you'll find this killer and not involve the A-Team. If you utter so much a word to them, and I'll know if you do, the deal is off and you're back to where you started." He snaps his fingers. "Ex-crazy man working a lousy job and trying to pay the bills. I'm offering you the chance to help me, and change your fate all at once. I'd not take that lightly."

This is too much. Too fast. I came up here to get some time to think. I never wanted any of this, and I certainly didn't want Stockwell playing God in my life any more than he already does. At the same time, he _is _God for all intents and purposes right now. He's holding all the cards and if there's even a chance I can help my guys, I've got to take it.

I meet his stare, then offer my hand. "It's a deal, but you'd better not be using me, Stockwell. I had enough of that back on the island." I know I'm making a deal with the devil, but I can't help it.

_Better the devil you know…_

"I'm glad you see reason, Captain. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a prior engagement. I'll be briefing you tomorrow at 0800. I believe you're still in Merrifield?"

"You tell me," I say, defiantly folding my arms.

A black limo approaches on Calvert as silently as the shadow of Death itself. As it pulls to a halt, a uniformed Able (Seventeen, perhaps?) opens the door for Stockwell. The General offers me a twisted smile.

"Captain, I appreciate a man with a sense of humor. I think you'll need it, along with your considerable intellect, to find the killer."

That reminds me all of a sudden. There's a dead man sprawled out at my feet. "Hey, what do you want me to do with Sixteen here?"

The limo window drops. "Don't concern yourself about him, Captain. I'll have my people take him to the lab. I'm guessing we may need him later." And then, Stockwell is gone.

As the big black Lincoln disappears around the corner, the only thing I can think to myself is how I should have just stayed home and watched the late-night reruns of _My Mother the Car_ instead, because I've just experienced the strangest three hours of my admittedly weird life.

_And you know, muchacho, it's just gonna get a hell of a lot stranger._

_To Be Continued_


	2. Chapter 2

One thing I always forget, now that I'm out of the VA and not taking a rainbow of pills every day, is how much I dream at night. It doesn't matter whether it's flying or running away from trash bag monsters or riding unicorns. My mind keeps on ticking even when my body is asleep.

Which is why, when I finally open my eyes, I think I'm still having a nightmare.

"Good morning, Captain. I trust you slept well."

I groan, pulling the army blanket up over my head. "Not again."

In fact, I know I'm not dreaming, though the events of the previous night feel far away. How did I get all the way back here? Have I eaten anything? Had anything to drink? The sandpaper dryness in my mouth seems to confirm everything I need to know.

Stockwell showing up at 0700, though, just makes things all the more surreal. He stands next to the pile of orange crates I use for a nightstand, looking thoughtful. "So you do remember our agreement. Your employer thinks you have a medical emergency today; I've seen to that. Oh, and our driver is waiting, so we'd best be off." Like always, he's commanding without ever raising his voice.

I think about asking how he managed to get in my apartment, then dismiss the thought. If he can track down the A-Team, breaking into a dump like this should be easy. "You mind if I at least take a leak and get dressed before we go?"

"By all means."

If he's bugged my place, and I wouldn't put it past him, that's the last place I might have some privacy. So I stagger in, yawning, and take my blessed time.

My reflection shocks me. Dark circles ring my eyes, as if I'm trying out for a grade-Z vampire flick. My corkscrewed hair is a mess and in dire need of a trim. I've always been skinny, but now my cheekbones stand out in stark relief and my collarbone is prominent above the neckline of my white undershirt. I can't remember the last time I've eaten, unless I count the two cups of stale coffee I drank before my excursion last night.

If Hannibal could see me now, he'd tell me to get a decent meal that didn't consist of cereal with a cartoon mascot. But he's ten miles away and as inaccessible to me as the surface of Mars for the time being. I laugh bitterly.

There's a short rap on the door. "Captain, we'd best hurry."

Damn him. Just when I thought I'd found a good way to deal with the agony I always seem to feel these days, he has to ruin it. He finds a way to stick his meddling fingers into every sweet piece of pie.

"Just a sec," I call, agitated. There's a black t-shirt with a caricature of Batman in the hamper that I sniff at, then decide is decent enough. I pull on a pair of khakis I know I've only worn one day. I'd take the time to shave and brush my teeth but decide against both, knowing how Stockwell would give me a lecture for wasting five minutes of his time. I take one look at myself in the grimy mirror. I might look only marginally better, but it's not as if I'm going to the White House or anything.

_At least, not yet. If I hold up my end of this bargain, that might change._

Stockwell is sitting at my rickety dinette table when I emerge from the bathroom. No doubt he's been busy exploring the contents of my little fridge or placing listening devices in my cookie jar, but I have no way of knowing for sure. He wears his usual immaculate suit and sphinx-like expression.

"I've taken the liberty of sending one of my Ables on a shopping trip. I do believe you take 2-percent milk with your Trix. We'd best be going. You know what Beltway traffic is like."

Whatever else I can say about the man, he is nothing if not polite when he wants something. I follow him out of the apartment, grabbing my bomber jacket from its peg by the door. A stretch limo waits on the curb. I can only hope Stockwell was telling the truth about the cereal, because I'm starving.

Baltimore is a different city by day. What were deserted, fog-shrouded streets last night are now alive with hundreds of rush hour cars, buses, and pedestrians. I've only visited when these streets belonged to ghosts. Now, they are fully inhabited by the living.

I've eaten practically a whole box of Trix, and I feel alert, almost hyperactive. Just like the good old days. The coffee, a premium brand I'd never be able to afford on my salary, has a lot to do with my sudden energy. Traveling with Stockwell's agency, whatever it may be, has its perks.

We haven't said much since leaving Merrifield. The few bits of conversation have been about trifles like the weather and how bad traffic on the Parkway can be. I even threw in a joke about how much easier this would be if they'd allow me access to something with wings. Even Stockwell chuckled at that.

"Now, Captain, my Empress is a multi-million-dollar aircraft. It's also my command center. I don't believe you have a current pilot's license despite your otherwise excellent credentials."

I can't fault him for not having a sense of humor, however dry.

We finally stop at what can only be a municipal building of some kind, all concrete and glass with no personality. The perfect edifice for a guy like Stockwell. Through the smoky window glass I see a sign: _State of Maryland, Office of Chief Medical Examiner._

"Captain, I don't believe you are squeamish around the dead?" It's not so much a question coming from him as it is a sick joke. "You'll be seeing more than a few of them today."

"Nope, no worries there," I say casually. God knows I've seen enough dead men to last me three lifetimes. The Able from last night, even with his throat ripped wide open, was sunshine and rainbows next to some of the bodies I saw in Nam. Something told me I'd be seeing him again today.

There's an Able, very much alive, waiting for us outside the morgue. He nods at us and falls in behind. I wonder if they don't breed these guys in a lab somewhere. They all look alike, all broad shoulders and scowls and somber dark suits. He follows us through the double doors like a detached shadow.

I notice the smell as soon as we enter. Having spent the last fourteen years of my life in captivity, I know that smell. Not just the smell of death, but of those waiting to die. I'm glad I brought my favorite jacket just so I can breathe in its familiar aroma instead.

Stockwell seems to know where we're going. And it's not up, but down. We pass endless identical metal doors and grim-looking employees. If this is a house of death, they sure got the atmosphere right. Even the VA, by comparison, might be bright and cheerful. And it's cold. I shiver, wishing again I was back in L.A.

After we can go down no further, we arrive at what must be our destination. The door opens with a soft hiss and I see where we are. Rows and rows of metal cabinets line the walls. In the center of the room, a stainless steel table awaits.

_Why, Mr. Murdock, it's time for your special therapy again. _I fight the urge to laugh out loud.

"Hunt, it's so good to see you." I've been so busy having flashbacks I didn't immediately notice we weren't alone.

"Penelope." He greets her, not with a hug, but a formal handshake. She's about his age, petite, with iron-grey hair in a stylish braid. Her features are angular but feminine. A pair of bifocals on a chain perch on her nose. Her whites brand her as a staff member and I notice the twisted snake logo embroidered on her breast pocket. Whoever Penelope is, she's Dr. Penelope. She reminds me of someone, but I'm not sure who. She offers a smile.

"I was told Hunt would be bringing a guest today. I'm Dr. Penelope Spicer." Yes, she definitely reminds me of someone.

"Murdock. H.M., if you like." I don't shake her hand, but just nod politely. Usually when doctors want to shake my hand, they're planning something unpleasant for me. It's a hard habit to break after so long.

She laughs, a throaty sound which echoes in the harsh metal room. "I once knew a guy named Murdock. He was the life of the party, that one." Her accent is native, that weird twang I've heard called "Bawlmerese." It makes her sound less like a doctor and more like a waitress or hairdresser.

I don't really feel like laughing along. Instead, I clear my throat. "So, when do I meet the contestants?"

Penelope and Stockwell exchange the briefest of glances. _There's something going on between these two_, I realize at once. They're not just old friends.

"These were trained agents, Captain, some of whom I personally trained. I think they deserve a bit more respect," Stockwell chides, sounding both fatherly and stern. "Shall we, Doctor?"

"I've already conducted autopsies, of course," she says, pulling a pen from behind her ear and pointing to one of the metal cabinets. She slides it open with a soft _clang _which echoes off the walls, and I feel the rush of cold air in the already chilly room. "Written up reports. Of course, Hunt got the full report on all of them save for the fella from last night; I'm still working on him. He wanted you to have a look at them as well. I'm also told you were with the Agency for some time?"

_Ah, so he did tell her. _"Yes, ma'am. Once in '68 and again in '72. Air America, mostly." I figure I'm not telling her anything she, or Stockwell, doesn't already know. So much for secrecy. The chit-chat gives me an excuse to look away from Contestant No. 1, the first of the dead Ables. I know the moment I look at him that he's been dead for some time. Waxy, sallow skin with the distinctive color and tang of embalming fluid. And, like Sixteen from last night, his throat has been ripped from ear to ear as if by a werewolf with an attitude problem.

This one is younger than Sixteen by maybe twenty years. He's probably my age. Was. Tenses are so weird when you talk about dead people. He is…was…probably quite a catch when he was still alive, with thick sandy hair and a chiseled jaw now horribly marred by Dr. Spicer's stitching job. He looks a little like Face, I realize.

"Able Twenty-nine," Stockwell answers my unasked question. "First victim, and, like Sixteen, apparently died from loss of blood caused by the wound you see. We found him behind Memorial Stadium last weekend." He turns his gaze to Penelope, like he's giving her a cue.

She nods. "This one was easy. I don't exactly think he cut himself shaving," the doc says, tracing with one gloved finger the vivid red slash running under the dead man's jawline. "The others are very much the same. Bled out. Probably a K-bar or something with a similar nasty edge to it. Appears to be a right-handed killer."

As she talks I look Twenty-nine's body up and down. Other than the obvious, his body is unmarked. He's probably from that Able factory Stockwell runs somewhere: fit, Caucasian, no identifying marks or even scars or tattoos. The Agency, at least while I worked for them, preferred their operatives that way. Just in case you ever got caught.

"Can I see the others?"

Again, there's that tiny glance between Penelope and Stockwell. I have no idea what that means and at this point I don't care. What I do care about is fulfilling this crazy deal so my guys can earn their freedom. If that means I have to look at dead bodies all day, that's what I'll do.

Eighty-One, the second victim, is a few years older and a few inches shorter. Same John Q. Public blandness to him and the same horrific throat slash. Penelope tells me he was brought in just two days after Twenty-nine.

"One is a fluke. Two, then, you have yourself a pattern," she says, wiping her forehead despite the chill. It must be a nervous habit. "None of the profiles we've compiled fit. I've gone down nothing but blind alleys."

"You guys tell the police about any of this?"

Stockwell actually laughs at my question. "Captain Murdock, you know as well as I that the police can't and won't investigate the homicides of men who don't actually exist. This is strictly in-house. Dr. Spicer, of course, is one of us."

"_Touche," _I wisecrack. It was a stupid question but I figured I'd ask anyway. I'm no cop, even though I've watched plenty of _Dragnet _reruns over the years. And I'm certainly not Sherlock Holmes. I can't figure out who, or what, killed these guys just by looking under their fingernails (_not, _I thought_, that the doc wouldn't have tried that anyway_) or calculating what phase of the moon it was.

I walk around and around, not really sure what to look for, fully aware of both the doc and Stockwell staring at me the whole time. If I smoked I'd want a cigarette right about now. It always helps Hannibal think.

_Your men need you. Focus, dammit. Think!_

I might have orbited the dead Able a dozen times before something catches my eye. There, on his exposed left temple…

"What is that?" I point, not really wanting to touch the corpse.

Penelope steps over and peers over her glasses. "Ecchymosis. Just a small bruise. I noticed that when I did the full report. There was debris on the street where he was found. More than likely he hit his head, but he was already dead when it happened."

The mark is tiny, no bigger than a dime. It's easy how I would have missed it. But there's something about it that bothers me.

_The doc is lying. _My internal voice is screaming. I've been alive long enough to listen when it does that. But I can't react, not in front of Stockwell. I inhale and try to keep my voice level.

"Was that bruise on either of the other two?"

It's Stockwell who speaks this time. "You spent enough time looking at Twenty-nine to know the answer, I hope."

Come to think of it, there had been a slight discoloration on the man's right temple. Now my inner Holmes is fired up. "How about the last one, the one from last night?"

Penelope slides Contestant No. 2 back into his chilled compartment and pulls out last night's victim in another unit across the room. He almost looks as though he might wake at any moment; aside from the distinctive throat wound, he almost looks fresh.

"There." I point in triumph. "See that?" On the man's temple is another of those little blue-black marks.

"And what do you make of it that Dr. Spicer cannot, Captain?" Stockwell asks.

I don't know. I dreamed last night, of Asian mountains hidden by thick fog, of jungles teeming with things with sharp claws, of Hueys set ablaze, and of a soft voice speaking in my ear. None of it had seemed so ominous as that tiny bruised piece of skin seemed to me now. I shuddered, and it had nothing to do with the temperature in the morgue.

"Can I ask you something?"

"If I can answer, I will." He nods at me.

"Were all these Ables Agency men? You know, were they Langley-trained?"

Stockwell takes a moment before answering me. "These were. In a manner of speaking."

Getting information out of him is like playing with a Chinese puzzle box. There's always more, always another layer. But that's typical of a true Agency man. To understand him, I understand that everything he says is a lie to some extent. What was it Truman had said back in the day? That the Agency was the American version of the Gestapo? He had that part right.

So what I said next came as no surprise to anyone, even Stockwell. "Whoever is doing this is on the inside. This isn't some random psycho. But I think you might have known that already."

"Whatever else you are, Captain Murdock, you are remarkably intelligent," he says, offering for him what passes for approval. "The question is, which one of them?"

"That's what I intend to find out." I wanted to get the hell out of here. The place was starting to creep me out and my claustrophobia was kicking into high gear. "First, though, I'm gonna need a burger and a milkshake. Then, I'm gonna have to ask you, not to mention the doc here, a favor…"

_To Be Continued_


	3. Chapter 3

That's one thing about me: when it comes to favors, usually I'm easy to please. Usually.

After a quick pit stop to McDonalds, Stockwell's driver has been kind enough to drop me off in Towson, what I assume to be is Baltimore's posh side a few miles to the north. To my great surprise, the General didn't ask me why. I'd have lied anyway. He just shrugs and tells me to call me when I need a ride, like I'm a kid and he's my dad. That's how he treats everyone, so why am I any different?

"It's not as if those men are about to come back from the dead. Take all the time you need," he says with a dry chuckle before leaving me to my own devices. I'm not technically alone, of course. A burly, stern-looking Able shadows me. Stockwell thinks the howling mad bird might try and fly the coop before laying the golden eggs. It doesn't matter to me. Fulfilling my part of the deal and getting my guys their freedom, well, that's what does matter. So I suck it up.

I'm sure what I need can be found within the building in front of me. Maybe I won't have a sudden "Eureka!", but my hunch tells me this is where I should start.

It's a library. To be exact, the Towson Library. Having haunted the little library at the V.A. for many years, I know it's the place to go when you don't want to be bothered. More important, when you don't want to be overheard.

Unlike Face, I never had that sexy librarian fetish. I don't know where he gets off on some of that stuff. I like librarians because they _know_ things. Other than Agency types, they know perhaps more than anyone else when it comes to local gossip and goings-on.

Inside, all is quiet, the way it should be. It's a weekday and school is in session, so the only other patrons are a few older folks and a coed with wild, spiky black hair. Two librarians, a younger guy and a middle-aged woman with a braided updo, watch us as we come in. I feel so self-conscious even after all these years. When it comes to people sitting behind a desk, I'm used to being scrutinized or judged, or at the very least having to check in. But that's an old habit. The woman nods and smiles. Here, I'm just another patron who happens to have a gorilla-sized escort.

I go straight to the card catalog drawers. There's something about those little rows of organized cards that strangely comforts me. Abraham comes before Acworth comes before Adair. Just the way it should be.

_When Face talks about wanting to settle down, have a normal life…is that what he means? Could it really be all that bad? _

If I succeed, I might just give him the chance to find out.

I have no idea how long I've been riffling through the index cards when I notice the lady librarian is gently clearing her throat beside me.

"I don't mean to alarm you, but your shoelace is untied. Wouldn't want you tripping on it."

She's right; my left shoe with its grubby lace is indeed undone. She tries to hide a smile.

"My son wears those same shoes. I can't get him to wear anything else," she says. She has a warm voice, like melted honey, and a kind face. No pinched face or tight bun like most of the librarians I've known over the years. As I finish tying, she asks, "You look so serious. Doing some research?"

I know I look like hell, with my disheveled hair and the bags under my eyes. But _serious_? That's a new one. I almost want to laugh with her. "Yes, ma'am. You could say that."

"Who's your friend? Godzilla?" She jerks her head slightly toward my Able escort, who's currently flipping through an old issue of _Sports Illustrated _at the magazine stand.

I instinctively trust this woman. I can't say whether it's the funky green pen tucked behind her ear or her reference to the Big G, but I do. I decide to gamble a little. "You could say that. Say, I'm a freelance reporter from out west and I'm here on assignment. I'm doing a story on serial killers. You know, readers just eat up that stuff. I've been told Baltimore is a great place to be for that," I tell her, amazed at how easily the lies come. If Face were here, he might even compliment me.

Her eyes sparkle. "Oh, yes. You're not the first. I'm a buff of sorts myself. Let me show you what I have."

Following her to the stacks, I can't help but think I'm being watched, and not just by the bored Able. I pass the spiky-haired girl and realize she's staring at me. She offers a wry smile.

"Cool shirt," she says without any hint of sarcasm.

"Thanks." It's the same one from last night, solid black with _Do You Have Change for a Paradigm _in white lettering. Out of all the people I've known over the years, I can count on one hand the number who have actually gotten that one.

I keep following Ms. Green Pen Librarian and she stops at an alcove in front of the nonfiction section. "Like I said, it's kind of a hobby. I'm really into _America's Most Wanted_ and shows like that. My husband thinks I'm nuts. If I weren't getting ready to retire, I'd think about changing careers."

I'm listening to her with only half my brain. My eyes are fixed on a lovingly made display of books and newspaper articles under the ominous caption _Nevermore_. Maybe this lady bakes cookies and helps orphaned kittens on the side, but she has a taste for the gruesome. Just about everything I can see involves some kind of horrible death, from the Victorian era to the present day. Knowing what I'm about to say won't sound so weird to her, I clear my throat.

"Anything turned up as of late?" I keep it casual, the way Amy Allen always did when working on a story. The trick was to put the sources at ease. "I'm going for a more current angle with this story."

She shakes her head. "Nothing here in Baltimore. There have been a few in Virginia and New York." It's as if she's discussing the weather instead of people's lives ending in violent fashion. "Anyhow, you'll be wanting to read this one at the very least."

The book she hands me is a glossy paperback entitled _Murderers of Baltimore_. It looks as if it would be a great read. But I need current intelligence, not stories about what happened when I was still in diapers.

"You didn't tell me your name. If you're a crime reporter, maybe I've read some of your work?" She sounds so excited, like some teenager meeting the Beatles.

"Howland Madison. I just signed on with the Courier in L.A.," I lie again. The alias comes so easily, considering it was the posh name Face used to tease me with when we were still in Nam. I offer a hand and she shakes it eagerly.

"I'm Hestia Talbot. Feel free to ask me whatever you need, Mr. Madison. I have to run back to my desk," she indicates a young boy and his mother waiting with an armload of books, "but I'd love to chat. Please come see me before you head out, all right? I love to talk crime."

She leaves me there in silence and I examine her display. It's well-done for sure, with clippings from the Baltimore papers dating back as far as the 1880s. Axe murders, gunshots, some guy who was locked in an industrial freezer and left to die. Quite a few drownings in the Inner Harbor. Baltimore is a dangerous place to be.

No throat slashings. The closest thing I can see is some poor guy who was carved up by a maniac with a hunting knife in the '70s.

I start riffling through the book Hestia handed me, not really knowing what I'm looking for. And I read. And read. I've always been a fast reader, able to get the wheat from the chaff just by skimming. I remember the expression Face gave me when I returned his copy of _War and Peace_ after 2 days and asked for another book.

"You mind if I join you?"

I'm so engrossed in the story of Raymond Koskie, twisted killer of prostitutes, that the voice startles me. It's the girl with the spiky hair who knows what a paradigm is. Up close, I can see that she has three studs in each ear and one more through her nose. Other than that, she's kind of sweet-looking.

"I read that book. It's kinda freaky that all that stuff really happened," she says, grabbing the chair opposite me. "Are you really, like, a reporter?"

_Ah, so she was listening earlier. _"I guess you could say I am."

She shakes her head and I notice her gelled hair doesn't move. "You don't look like a reporter. You look like you're hung over. And besides, no reporter I know wears t-shirts like that."

I offer a weak smile. "OK, maybe I lied a little bit. Not really the kind of stuff normal people are into, right?"

"Hey, I think it's cool."

Life is so full of ironies. I come to the local library for some time alone, some research, and I run into both the Angel of Death and Edgar Allan Poe's daughter. I wonder if I'd have better luck somewhere else.

"So what's your real name?" the girl asks me. Apparently she wasn't buying the "Howland Madison" line I fed Hestia.

"If I told you, you promise not to tell anyone?"

She laughs. "You have your own bodyguard. You're probably, like, some celebrity or something. I'm not sure why you'd choose Baltimore, though."

"Murdock. H.M." Instead of shaking my hand, Miss Spiky Hair high-fives me. The sharp _smack_ sound echoes in the silence of the library.

"Awesome. I usually hang out here before class, so, if you're around, you know?" I have a feeling she thinks I'm much younger than I am, and I'm too tired to tell her otherwise. "I'm Andromeda. And I hate 'Andie,' so don't even try it. Only my mom calls me that."

Andromeda. Hestia. Unusual names, those. My inner voice is trying to tell me something and I'm not sure what it is. It's not alarm bells but it's making me decidedly uncomfortable.

"I'm not a celebrity, and I'm not a reporter. Just a guy trying to do a bit of reading," I tell her. It comes out a little stronger than I intended. "It's good to talk to you."

Andromeda doesn't seem the least bit hurt. "Oh. Right on. Anyway, I gotta get to class," she says, pointing at the clock over the main entrance, which now indicates half past two. "Later, man. Like I said, it's cool that you're into this stuff."

As she's turning to go, I remember something she said. "Hey. You said you were here a lot. Is there a phone anywhere?"

"Yeah. Usually Hestia's cool with me using hers. Just ask."

A thousand thoughts are swirling around in my mind, a jigsaw puzzle caught in a tornado. I know that if somehow I'm able to put them all together, they'll form a complete picture. Right now they're just tiny pieces that mean absolutely nothing on their own. Stockwell's declaration from the morning comes back to me before.

_You are intelligent._

I may be crazy, or ex-crazy, or whatever, but yeah, I've always been smart. This time, it's like having the right answers on the tip of my tongue and coming up empty. What am I missing?

Three dead Ables. Cause of death seems so obvious, a three-year-old could have done the autopsies. All three with a discolored spot on their temples in addition to the horrific throat wounds. Caucasian. Male. In excellent health. Men like them did not drop dead randomly, nor were they easily taken by surprise or overpowered.

And then there were the women I've met today, three of them with nothing in common save for their unusual names: Penelope, Hestia, and Andromeda. I remember those names from my dog-eared copy of Edith Hamilton. That can't be just a coincidence. Knowing Stockwell set me up on this mission, I know it isn't.

I decide to take the paperback with me, stuffing it inside my jacket pocket. Maybe there's something in it that might provide a clue, or spark some distant memory. My internal voices are telling me the answer is right in front of my face, and I tell them to shut the hell up.

Though Stockwell expressly forbade it, I need to talk to a friendly right now. Since my Able escort appears to be in the men's room at the moment, or else reading _Cosmopolitan_ on the sly, I decide to take yet another risk.

Hestia is typing away furiously when I approach her desk. She beams at me like I'm Robert Redford. "Did you find what you needed, Mr. Madison?"

"I guess you could say I did. Would you mind if I used your phone? I have to get back to my hotel and I'm fresh out of change."

She takes me behind the desk to a cramped staff workroom. "Just use the 9 for outgoing. Take all the time you need," she says.

Knowing I don't have much time, I dial the emergency number I've committed to memory. After a couple rings I hear a familiar voice.

"Lou's Delivery."

Hannibal never gave that old joke up. I brighten at the sound of his voice. "Colonel, it's me."

"Where are you? We were starting to worry."

I can't tell him. I know this line is tapped. "Listen, can I talk to Face real quick? It's important."

It takes a moment for him to come to the phone; he was probably out at the pool or watching TV. "Murdock? Is that you?" He sounds as concerned as Hannibal. How long has it been since I've seen them? A week? Two? There's no time for me to think about it.

"Face, you remember back in Nam when I came back from Air America? Did I ever say anything about either Greek mythology or ninja warrior skills?"

The line goes silent. Then Face chuckles. "Is this a riddle?"

"I'm serious. It's important."

Every tick of the clock is another one I can't afford. The Able could be back at any moment and realize I've wandered off. If he finds me here, this whole thing could go up in flames. My team might never get their freedom.

"Murdock, I'm not sure about this. Are you having more flashbacks?" Now he sounds less amused and more worried. "Do you need to talk?"

I am having flashbacks all of a sudden, but not the kind they always show in the movies. There's a bright fluorescent light, several dark figures, a soft voice that sounds like a mother's.

"Murdock? You still there?"

"Yeah, Face, I'm he…"

"I'm afraid we're going to have to end this call. That will be all, Captain." I know that voice right away. I hear the _click _at the other end. How Stockwell could have known, I have no idea. Maybe the Cosmo-reading Able wasn't as slow as he appeared. In any case I feel like a deer looking down the barrel of a shotgun.

I am so screwed. And all because I was lonely and wanted to talk to my best friend.

"You remember our bargain. The A-Team are not to be involved in any way in this investigation. If I so much as hear about further contact, the deal is off. Are we clear, Captain Murdock?"

I'm gripping the receiver so tightly, my hand has gone numb. "Yes. We're clear," I say, feeling helpless and drained. He is holding all the cards. He is God and he can step on me like an ant on a sidewalk if he wants. If I want to do this, I have to do it his way.

I slide the receiver back. It's midafternoon. I'm tired but sleep is not an option. Reading seems to be my best hope.

As I'm leaving the library, Hestia calls after me. "Mr. Madison, will you be coming back? I'd love to help you with your story."

"I appreciate it, ma'am. I'm not sure, but you've been most helpful."

Outside, the overcast skies are already darkening and a chill wind whips columns of dead leaves through the street. I shiver in my leather jacket. Behind me the silent Able is ever-present.

I hate this life I'm living, controlled in every way, separated from everyone I love, ripped from everything that is familiar and warm into a place that's strange and cold. I hate that Stockwell owns me as surely as he owns my friends.

As the sedan pulls to the curb, I remember the book, a solid weight in my pocket. It is something to start on. Maybe it will be the glue I need to fit all these tiny pieces back together again. For my sanity's sake I hope it is.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Time has a funny way of slipping away from me on autumn afternoons when I don't have to go to work. When I sat down to really have a go at the library book, it was somewhere around noon. Now, when I finish the last line and look up at the cat clock with the shifty eyes, it's half past six and what little sunlight remained is gone.

My stomach growls. These last few days eating has been just another mindless chore. I open my little fridge, sniff at a Chinese take-out box, and decide last week's chow mein is still fit for human consumption. Only when I dive into it with my chopsticks do I realize how hungry I really am. The cold noodles are gone in minutes and I crave more.

I could always ask the Ables to go pick me up some more. They may be guards, but they're also a valet service of sorts. I remember Face telling me not so long ago that he sent them to grab his dry cleaning.

More than even another order of Chinese food, I want to talk to him right now. Not just to hear the soothing sound of his voice, but to ask him a question.

_What did I tell you about my time with the Company?_

It's kind of weird to think of it that way. I should know; it's my life, not his. But what I do know is that there are many holes in the patchwork quilt of my memories from the time I stepped on the tarmac in Da Nang way back then to now. Holes that seem less like tiny tears in the fabric and more like yawning chasms. If anybody can help me remember, anybody who's available to me, it's Face.

I don't know when or even if I'll get to talk to him again. Stockwell's warning from earlier is still ringing in my ears. My phones are bugged and I'd never make it to the pay phone at the corner grocery without being seen. Aside from sending a smoke signal or a carrier pigeon, I have no way of reaching Face or the others.

As for my Sherlock Holmes act, it's going nowhere on a fast train. I've been through the library book and found absolutely nothing helpful. Just a lot of gruesome stuff about murdered prostitutes, missing kids, and Edgar Allan Poe fans who went off the deep end. Typical true crime garbage.

I pace the kitchen floor, wishing I had a violin to play or some more chow mein to eat. I hear the nagging voices of doubt that always start gabbing away when I'm frustrated. I am not a detective or a famed investigator or one of those forensic guys you see on TV now. I'm just a formerly crazy guy with a half-empty stomach and no evidence to go on.

_But you know _everything_ about reality, Murdock. You only choose to live in a fantasy world._

That's a voice I haven't heard in a long time. It's a voice I trust, and it immediately makes me stop pacing.

_When you find yourself lost, why not start at the beginning?_

The other day I asked one of the Ables to get me a white posterboard, the kind kids use at science fairs. He didn't ask what it was for and I didn't tell him. It's in the tiny living room, hanging over the mantle of the blocked-up fireplace. It is covered in my untidy scrawl along with clippings from newspapers, close-up photos of the dead Ables, and all manner of shorthand. My findings so far. I go to it now and look closely at the evidence. I feel like the guy who found the Rosetta Stone before he figured out what all those little squiggles and lines meant.

At the top of the white board, I've circled Stockwell's name. All these men and women are just players in a game he controls. Even me. I can't say I've ever liked him. I understand what Hannibal meant when he privately told me the General has a god complex.

"Hang on a sec…"

I'm talking out loud but I don't care. Something has just fallen into place. I'm not sure what, but the wheels and cogs in my head are turning faster now.

God complex. Control.

I grab the nearest writing utensil at hand, which happens to be a purple Mr. Sketch marker. The fruity scent of grape fills my nostrils as I begin circling furiously. There, underneath the morgue photos, is Dr. Penelope Spicer. I hadn't recognized her because, when I met her a long time ago, the hair was longer and had much less gray.

Bolting from the living room, I nearly run right into the narrow doorway on my way to the bedroom. Instead, one of my feet catches on the old brass umbrella stand I use as a doorstop. I yelp in pain and hop around for a moment, hoping nothing is broken. When only a dull throbbing remains, I'm able to hobble onward. It takes a few minutes to pry the floorboards loose and find what I'm looking for. An old Buster Brown shoebox with a single piece of masking tape bearing the letters "H.M."

How I've managed to keep it safe from Stockwell and the Ables, I'm not sure. They never bother to search that carefully. Mostly they just watch the place and make sure I'm not calling my friends. Like I'm some kind of teenager who's been grounded.

I breathe a deep sigh of relief when I find the box still full. Inside is a jumble of old photos, beer coasters, a rabbit's foot, and a dozen other little pieces of my life before. The one photo I'm looking for is toward the back. Looking at it, I smile in spite of myself. We're at Lucy's in Saigon having a surprise birthday party for Faceman during our R&R. _Must have been in '70_, I think, doing some quick mental math_._ The birthday boy is clearly drunk; he wears a goofy smile and several of those plastic Hawaiian leis over his greens. Hannibal is there too, caught in mid-laugh with a shot glass in hand. I'm right beside Face, my arm around him, grinning. I realize with a pang of sadness how much more hair I had then. B.A. must have taken the shot because he's nowhere in sight.

And there, right behind the jukebox, is Penelope Spicer.

She's a little blurry and out of focus, but it's unmistakably a younger version of the same woman I met two days ago. I remember now, running into her on one of several trips to the men's room that night, and her saying something to me that seemed completely strange at the time. Or I could have just been as drunk as Face had been.

"_You are needed on Olympus_."

I don't remember much else about that party. For all I know she could have been talking about some code, another off-the-record jaunt for the Air America boys across the border into Laos or Cambodia. It also could have been that I was on my sixth beer by then. But I remember so well now: her soft Baltimore accent, her long ginger curls, and the scent of camellias. And now I've just met her again, nearly twenty years later. Why? I stopped believing in coincidences a long time ago. With Stockwell pulling the strings, they just don't exist.

For a couple more minutes I dig through the shoebox, looking for more pictures from that night or any where the mystery woman might have wandered into the frame. Nothing.

When I look out the bedroom window, I see the black sedan still at the curb. My stomach lets out another growl and it gives me an idea. My phone line may be bugged, but I have ways of getting around that. First things first, though. I'm starving.

The Able picks up on the fourth ring. "This better be important." He sounds annoyed, like I interrupted him in the middle of listening to a good Orioles game on the radio.

"Do you think you could go grab me some Moo Goo Gai Pan and fried rice? See, I don't get paid until Friday, and the Shanghai Palace is still open…"

I hear a grunt. "I'm not your errand boy. Get it yourself."

I sigh, then decide to play the one decent card I have. "General Stockwell said you guys could help me out during my investigation. All I'm asking for is a little chow. C'mon, please?"

"This is coming out of your paycheck, flyboy. And I expect a tip."

Once I hang up, I know timing is everything. I have ten minutes, maybe fifteen if the Chinese place has other orders to fill. It's times like this when I'm glad I've managed to keep in shape.

The one "back door" in my fourplex apartment is the bathroom window. I'm able to slip out without much difficulty. My right foot is still a little sore from its encounter with the umbrella stand. After a quick look around, I'm satisfied that no one is watching, and I set off at a fast trot toward the 7-11 two blocks away.

Paranoia jogs alongside me. I know I'm taking a huge risk doing this, but I have to. For my guys, and more importantly, for my own sanity's sake. Stockwell could be on top of me in a matter of minutes. Maybe he'll sic those Dobermans of his on me. _Bring 'em on,_ the wild, reckless side of me says. _I could use a good fight_.

Nobody, no Ables and not even the local wino, is around when I make it to the phone booth next to the brightly-lit store. I look down at my watch. Two minutes. Not bad for an ex-crazy guy with a bad ankle who's pushing forty pretty hard. I have to hurry. From my jacket pocket I withdraw a quarter.

It's times like this when I appreciate how Face likes to talk about himself. I remember him telling me how Stockwell had agreed to let him take his latest girl, a swimsuit model named Ilana, to the hottest French bistro inside the Beltway next Tuesday night. And tonight was Tuesday. All I needed to remember was the name of the place. _Chez _something?

My heart, already galloping along from my run and my paranoia, nearly stops when I hear the tap on the phone booth door. I look up and see only the disheveled wino.

"Got some change, buddy? I'm starving, see…"

I shoo him away with my free hand. He shuffles off, muttering under his breath. I almost feel sorry for him; as it turns out, there really are crazier people than me in this world. Then I remember that I have maybe five minutes to call Face.

_Chez Paniche…_was that it? I find the listing, Georgetown exchange, in the White Pages and dial. My pulse thuds double time now. It rings a third time, then a fourth. I'm just about to hang up when a man's voice answers.

_"Bonsoir, Chez Paniche."_

"I was hoping to speak to one of your patrons. Templeton Peck. It's a…" I fish for words. What had I expected to say? "A family emergency," I finish. Not entirely a lie, but I've done a lot better than that.

"Just one moment while I locate Mr. Peck for you." The hold music is as soft and French as the maitre d's voice. Debussy, I think. It seems to go on forever before someone picks up the receiver on the other end.

"Hello?" It's Face, for sure. He sounds out of breath, like he's been pulled away from something really appetizing. The way he described Ilana to me, that might very well be the case.

"Face, it's me. I have to ask you something important."

"Murdock…seriously? Remy said it was an emergency. I thought maybe someone died." I hear the relief along with the exasperation in his voice. Then, as if he's just now realizing the strangeness of me calling him on his dinner date, he asks, "How'd you know I was here?"

It's my turn to be exasperated. "No time to talk. What kind of stuff did I tell you about my time with the Agency? You know, back in Nam?"

A long pause follows. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"I'm serious. I need to know." I'd give anything to have him here with me right now, the way it used to be, not sneaking around and knowing Ables are watching and possibly listening to every word. I hate it, but it's the only chance I have to talk to him.

"Well…I mean, you never really talked about it. You always sort of shut down whenever anybody brought it up."

My shoulders sag. This is not what I'd hoped for. "C'mon, Face. I had to have said _something _to you. How long have we been friends?" I press.

"There was that one time, the time you came down with that bad jungle fever? You were going on and on about some Quonsets out in the middle of nowhere, and how the gods lived there. I just thought you were delirious, or maybe it was the anti-malarial drugs…"

I feel my breath catch in my throat. _Gods _again. This isn't the first time someone has told me about gods. "What else?"

"I don't know, Murdock." Face sighs, and I can tell now I've touched a nerve. "You were really fighting it. The doc figured it was best to let you rest and get your strength back…"

"When was the fever?" I interrupt, thinking I already know the answer.

He thinks for a moment, then gives me his answer. "It was '70. Right before my birthday."

The huge puzzle in my head has just had a few pieces added to it. The big picture, though, remains maddeningly blank. Just like my whole time with the Agency. _Why can't I remember anything other than the basics? What does Stockwell have to do with all this? Who is Dr. Spicer, really?_

"Murdock? You still there?"

"Yeah." I look at my watch again. Time's almost up, and I know I have to get back soon or risk getting caught. "Look, Face, can you find a way to…"

I never get a chance to say "meet me sometime, so we can talk," because the recorded operator's voice is nowtelling me that I need to insert another quarter if I'd like to continue the call. It's just as well. I'll need to sprint to make it back to the apartment and catch my breath. And my ankle has started to hurt again.

The wino is still standing under the harsh glow of the lamppost, staring, as I start back running.

The fourplex is in sight when I trip for the second time that night. This time I'm not so lucky. I sprawl forward and it's only my reflexes that save me. I feel the asphalt against my palms and the knees of my pants.

"Out for your evening constitutional, Captain?"

I don't have to look up to know who it is. And know how utterly screwed I am at this moment. "Don't you have anything better to do on a Tuesday night than follow me around, Stockwell?" I rise and try to regain a bit of lost dignity.

He stares up and down at me. How long he's been watching me, I have no idea. Behind those dark glasses, I see…what? Concern? Amusement? Since his idea of fun is seeing other people squirm, I'm not surprised in the least. Nor am I surprised when he smiles.

"It would seem not. Another of our Ables has been killed. I tried to call just now but it seems you've," he eyes my skinned knees, "been out of the house."

"I'll add it to my to-do list." I can hardly hide my relief. Does he honestly not know what I've really been doing, or is he just playing a game with me again? I can't take anything he says at face value. I have to assume the worst.

He pulls a phone from his suit jacket, then dials rapidly and says a few quick words to someone. I'm guessing it's the Able I sent out for Chinese food. "I hear you're using your security detail for home delivery now. I understand you're working, but I can't have you abusing privileges. Remember that the taxpayers are funding our endeavors."

I'm not sure why this last statement angers me so much. I'm tired, worried, and hungrier than a man ought to be. And I'm pissed. Pissed at Stockwell for all his stupid games and his lies. For using my team, my friends, as bait to make me do his dirty work.

For a brief moment I think about attacking him. Then I remember that I am not the only one whom the Agency trained in _jiu jitsu_.

"Your dinner, however, is the least of my concerns. It seems your investigation has suddenly become time-sensitive. You now have exactly forty-eight hours to produce tangible evidence. Otherwise, our original deal is off."

It's as if I've been hit by a truck. "Come again?" I say, aware of how stupid I sound.

"My superiors…and yes, Captain, even I have superiors…are impatient. Losing this many Ables is a matter of security, not to mention embarrassment. They are an investment. I dislike losing my investments." Damn, the bastard is smug about all this. He's talking like he wants me to pick up some bread and milk, not to solve a problem even he and his precious Agency can't.

"What the hell do you want? What's in it for me, Stockwell?"

He offers me the closest thing to a genuine smile as I've seen from him. "I told you before. A full release for you and your team, no questions asked. I'd have thought that was incentive enough for you."

I move closer to him. If I wanted, I could land a quick right hook, despite my throbbing ankle. "And what aren't you telling me? Why me?"

There's a pause. In those few brief seconds, I read his face. _There _is _something he's keeping from me. _But secrets are his stock in trade. He won't be giving any of them up tonight.

"If you are successful in getting me what I want, I promise to tell you what I can."

_What I can_. What a load of shit.

"Liar!"

That's an Agency man for you. Lies on top of lies. I throw caution to the wind and take that swing after all.

With a fluid motion I wouldn't have thought possible for a man his age, Hunt Stockwell counters my wild throw and uses my own momentum against me. Next thing I know I am face-up on the asphalt, gasping for breath.

"Please call me when you have a relevant update, Captain. I apologize for the circumstances of our meeting, but I must be going now." Before I can struggle to my feet, another black sedan appears and my tormentor is gone.

The night around me is quiet, but inside me is a single soft, determined voice. I know what I have to do. I just have no idea how the hell I'm going to do it…or what it will cost me.

As I limp away, I'm aware of two things: the bruise that will surely cover my lower back in the morning, and how much I'm looking forward to a bowl of Moo Goo Gai Pan.

_To Be Continued_


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

As I always joked with Hannibal, I never seemed to go looking for trouble. Instead, it just had a way of finding me.

Every step along the darkened street brings a fresh jolt of pain and a reminder that yes, I, H.M. Murdock, am in trouble. I'm in trouble because I have to find some way to find the Beltway's answer to Jack the Ripper, clear my own name, and save my team. And I'm starting to run out of time.

_Think. You need to focus. _The trouble is, when I try to, there is only a big blank spot where memories should be. It's like they've been wiped, as if Stockwell is a smug teacher holding a big eraser and my brain is a chalkboard. He knows something. He just doesn't want to tell me…yet. He wants me, no, _needs _me, to somehow puzzle it out for myself.

I think of the time we hypnotized B.A. to get him on a plane. I could use some of that right now. Because I can't remember anything important, no matter how hard I try. Intermittent memory loss is a real bitch.

I'm still carrying the bag of rapidly cooling Chinese food. My appetite is gone, but maybe I can save it for later. What I do know is the night, like the chow mein, is quickly getting colder, and my jacket and T-shirt are hardly any protection against the biting wind. If I'm going to get any thinking done, it'll be at my place, with a cup of coffee and a radiator going full blast. I quicken my pace, ignoring the throbbing in my ankle.

When I always used to read Spider-Man comics, he had his Spidey-sense. My own sixth sense, even if it doesn't have a catchy name, is tingling by the time I get back home. I can't say why, but three tours in Nam have given me a heightened awareness of danger. I slip my key into one hand and the pocket knife I always carry into the other. It almost makes me laugh. If the Ripper is in there, it's not much of a weapon. Maybe I can corkscrew him to death. But it's better than nothing, and its weight is reassuring. The lock clicks open.

Inside, all is quiet and dark. The third apartment is vacant, and the couple in #2 and the lady in #4 work odd hours. Nobody is here but me. I think. I hope.

My heart is working up from a trot to a gallop by the time I get the key in my own door, Swiss Army knife and cold take-out in hand. _Come on. You're being paranoid now. _

The minute I turn on the light, I see.

It's as if a tornado has gone through. Furniture upturned and torn to pieces. Books ripped to shreds. My collection of vinyl scattered and broken. Someone…and I have a fair idea who…has been here. If I hadn't gone out to get my food, he and I might have met.

I hear myself moan. It doesn't sound like my own voice. It sounds like a scared rabbit cornered by rabid dogs. My ankle, already painful, feels ready to give out on me. And then I see the words, unmistakable in two-foot lettering, scrawled across my kitchen wall:

FROM HELL

Whatever else Stockwell is, he isn't a prankster. He didn't do this. Whoever wrote this short, cryptic message was looking for me, pushing my buttons and driving me deeper down a rabbit hole I thought I'd left forever.

I recognize the Jack the Ripper reference right away. In so many years at the V.A. I read pretty much the whole of the meager institutional library, including the books about serial killers. (Why they kept them in a nuthouse, I never could quite tell.) Either the intruder thinks he _is _Jack, or knows something about the famous murders. Or…

_It's a personal message. From _hell.

A tiny beam of light has clicked on in the darkness of my recessed memories. Hell. Hell on earth.

Vietnam.

I'm too shocked to really be afraid. After a quick search to make sure the mysterious writer is, in fact, gone, I sit down on the only chair left untouched and still standing. I look down at my hands and see that they're shaking like Jell-O wobbling on a plate.

I could use a drink right now. The strongest thing I have in my almost-bare fridge is chocolate milk, so I pour myself a glass and chug it down.

My options are few. If I call the cops, they'll file a report and nod and assure me that Everything Will Be OK, which I know it won't. I can't call Face again. He'd worry too much and get himself tied up in all this. I imagine how that conversation might go: "Hey, Faceman, I think some psycho killer is trying to terrorize me before he uses me as a victim in _The Washington Chainsaw Massacre_." Scared as I am, that's good enough for a laugh.

There is nobody else. Everyone I've known, at least well enough to confide in, is either dead, invisible, or hanging out in a padded cell on the other side of the country. Game over. I have to accept that I've hit a dead end.

What I really need is sleep, but I know I'm too alert, not to mention afraid of a return visit from Mr. Ripper himself, to even consider it. I'm fumbling absently through the stack of junk mail on my kitchen table when something catches my eye. It's the Polaroid I took from the shoebox, the one of the party in Saigon. The one where Dr. Spicer is standing over by the juke.

She knows something. I can't say what, but any little piece might help me now. I glance at my watch. 11:15. A bit late, but who's counting?

I'm excited enough at the prospect of talking to her, asking her questions, that my brain wants to overlook certain facts. Like, a crazed knife-wielding maniac might be waiting right outside my door to turn me into shish-kebabs. And that my phone is surely bugged. And that she's going to be really pissed getting a call from me at this hour, if I'm even able to reach her.

_Who says I'm not still crazy?_ I think as I fumble around the mostly dark kitchen for a flashlight and a pair of rubber gloves.

Outside, I do a quick perimeter check. No Ables (the question of whether or not they sleep is answered now) and no homicidal maniacs. My ankle is a dull roar thanks to the four aspirin I chugged down with the last of the chocolate milk. I'm ready to go.

The plan, such as it is, is simple. Like Hannibal always says, sometimes simple is best. I'll find a pay phone with some privacy and call Dr. Spicer. Stockwell may be watching me but I doubt even he's found a way to listen in on all the pay phones. I have one in mind; it's maybe half a mile away and halfway hidden behind a big old oak. Nobody's likely to walk in on me. If the Ripper does show up, I have the biggest knife from my kitchen tucked inside my jacket.

I try to picture him. Nothing comes to mind except a wraith in a dark coat. Does he know me? Hate me? He clearly wants to send me a message. I don't know what it is, but I know staying ignorant may not keep me alive.

The phone booth is empty, of course. The whole neighborhood seems to be asleep. I flip through the "S" section of the massive phone book for the D.C. area. My heart sinks. There's nothing between "Spica" and "Spicerman." Then I remember her workplace. The morgue. It's a long shot, but I have to try. I put a quarter in and dial the number. It rings, and rings, and rings. I'm about to give up when a bored-sounding male voice answers with "State Medical Examiner's Office."

"Um, Dr. Penelope Spicer , please?"

"Let me see if she's still here. Do you mind holding?"

A minute, then another. The droning voice returns. "She's just about headed out. Lemme connect you."

And then I hear her voice. "Hello. Is that you, Agnes?"

I have no idea who Agnes is and I don't care. "Dr. Spicer, you probably don't remember me. This is H.M. Murdock. You know, I came in with General Stockwell yesterday?" The words come out in a breathless rush.

There's a moment of terrible silence. When she speaks again I can barely hear her. "You shouldn't be calling here. He'll know."

"I don't care. Please, this is really important. Can I talk to you? Alone? I need help, and I think you can help me."

I can almost hear her thinking. Maybe Stockwell has her in a tight little cage just like me. Then, she sighs deeply and whispers, "All right. I shouldn't be doing this, but…meet me in fifteen minutes where the 'U' is missing. Do you know that place?"

It takes me a minute before I realize what she means. I nod and tell her I do.

"Then I'll be there. I won't be followed. Be sure you're not either."

The line goes dead. If I'm lucky, I won't follow it.

Years ago, I'm sure the place was called Sully's All-Nite Diner. Now, it's just SLLY'S. I thought it was maybe "Sally's" or even "Silly's" before one of the waitresses clued me in. The place, a few streets from my place, mostly caters to cops, EMTs, and other poor souls who work weird hours. It's a dive and I don't know how it passes health inspections. It's true to its name in that they serve around the clock. Which is probably why Dr. Spicer picked it.

It's just about midnight by the time I walk through the front door. A pair of firemen and a skinny waitress behind the counter are the only people. I wonder if I've somehow beat her to it when I hear Dr. Spicer's voice.

"Mr. Murdock? Over here."

Her charcoal pantsuit is a near-match for the vinyl of the booth and the smoky, dingy environs of SLLY's. No wonder I didn't see her. I join her. She looks more tired than the last time I saw her; even in the dim light I can see the circles under her eyes. She offers a warm but weary smile.

"I'm afraid I can't stay long. What can I do for you?"

This woman, whose younger self once watched me and my friends get drunk halfway around the world, is my only remaining link to a past I've all but forgotten. I decide to be blunt. "You knew me in Vietnam, didn't you?" It comes out a little harder than I'd like, more like an accusation than a question.

"What makes you think that?"

The waitress arrives before I can protest. Without looking up, Dr. Spicer orders for both of us. "Black coffee. And some extra sugar, please." She looks at me, a soft, sphinxlike smile on her lips. "Tell me what you remember about your time with the Agency, Murdock."

Out of all the things she might have said, this is the last thing I expected. "Why?" I'm suspicious but curious.

"You can't remember very much, can you? Other than the two Air America jobs?" Her voice is gentle. She might have made a good shrink if she hadn't chosen her current line of work. "Don't you ever think about it?"

"More than you'd think." The coffee arrives and, in annoyance, I drink mine too fast, burning the tip of my tongue. _Goddamn, I hate it when I do that._ "You can't _not _think about it. I've been thinking about it for nearly twenty years."

She is more careful with her coffee, swirling in several packets of sugar and stirring. I want to be angry with her, but somehow I can't. "Why have you been going to Baltimore, Murdock?"

I'm about to answer her, but then I stop. I actually think about it. Why would I go there? It's not exactly in the neighborhood, and I've been short on money since I came to Virginia. "I guess I like the scenery," I say, aware of how stupid that sounds. "You know, the Inner Harbor and all that."

Her smile is as mysterious as the Mona Lisa's. If she were Stockwell, I'd have reached across the table and throttled her. She doesn't speak for a moment; just sips at her coffee and looks at me. It's as if she, too, is trying to remember something.

"Did you ever go to a little dive in Saigon called Lucy's?" I decide the risk is worth a possible reward.

She laughs. "I went to a lot of places like that when I served."

_Okay, now we're getting somewhere._

"Do you remember a guy's birthday party, must have been in '70? Good-looking guy, a real ladies' man?"

I can tell that for all Stockwell claims to be mysterious, an enigma wrapped inside a puzzle, he has absolutely nothing on Penelope Spicer. Absolutely nothing of what she's thinking is reflected in her expression. I could be asking her about the weather, or about the Orioles. She ought to look into playing poker professionally.

When she does finally speak, it's in a low whisper. I have to lean in to hear her.

"Listen to me. I can help you. It's not going to be easy, and we may have to lose our tail. Don't look," she says, gesturing ever so slightly at the two guys across the room, "they're watching us and they've probably overheard. Hunt is, well, he's a suspicious man, let's just say. But I've had enough of his game. I want out just as much as you do."

I feel my heartbeat quicken. She's either sincere or a great actress. "You were with the Agency too, then?"

She nods. "I did a lot of things for a lot of people. I still do. The time has come for me to start balancing out some of the things that…" her voice falters for the first time, "…that perhaps I'm not proud of."

"What does this have to do with me?"

Her grey eyes lock onto me. "Everything."

It's as if all the air has been sucked out of the diner. I realize I've been holding my breath. "Why do you want to help me? Stockwell's not gonna be happy, and you know about this Jack the Ripper guy on the loose, right?"

She sighs. "You're…how shall I put this?"

What she meant to say, I'm not sure, because I see the two "firemen" making their way over to us. They're Ables, for sure: I recognize them just by the humorless expressions and brick-wall builds. After what I went through with Stockwell earlier, I'm going to be in serious trouble now. I doubt very much that I'll just get a slap on the wrist.

"On the count of three, help me turn over this table," says Dr. Spicer.

"What?"

"One, two…three!"

Some animal instinct tells me she's right. I heave with all my might, and the Formica table goes crashing into the two big guys, knocking one of them sideways into the jukebox. The other one stumbles, then reaches for his underarm holster. The waitress begins to scream.

"Hold it!"

Dr. Spicer holds a neat little Ruger in a perfect shooter's stance. The two Ables look at one another, as if embarrassed, then toss their own sidearms to the ground. "Tie these guys up," she orders me.

I'm only too happy to oblige; I use one of the diner's tablecloths to improvise a rope.

"You're not getting away with this," the dark-haired Able snarls as I hog-tie him to his partner.

"Oh, I'm afraid I am," Dr. Spicer says. Her steely gaze, and the barrel of the Ruger, never waver. "Tell Hunt I give him my best regards, won't you?"

We turn to leave as if it's the most normal thing imaginable, a man and his favorite aunt out for a late-night bite to eat. The young waitress has stopped screaming but is cowering behind the counter. "Are you the cops?" she asks in a trembling squeak.

"No, my dear. We're the CIA." She removes a $20 bill from her purse. "And please, keep the change."

Outside it's colder than ever. Sleep is out of the question now.

"We'll have to borrow a car that's not bugged. I presume you still know how to hot-wire one?" Dr. Spicer has returned her handgun to the inside of her jacket, but still glances around nervously in case any more Ables are around.

I have to nod sheepishly. One more thing Faceman taught me how to do. My eyes immediately find a vomit-brown Plymouth parked by a mailbox. Perfect. It's even unlocked, I find, hands reaching underneath the steering wheel. And has nearly a full tank.

As the engine sputters to life, the doctor climbs in beside me. "Where are we going, anyway?" I ask, thinking I already know the answer.

"I hear Baltimore is lovely this time of year."

_To Be Continued_


End file.
